To be him, is but to feel
by phantastictimesahead
Summary: This is a tale of what it like to be THEM, and what its like to be HIM.
1. Pre-

_Dear whom this may concern,_

 _My name is M, this is all I shall be known as._

 _Please know that I am real and genuine, and this is far more than a story._

 _This is my way to push out my feelings, to accept them and to deal with them, I work them into my tales._

 _Please know it is okay to feel as you feel, and just understand that if something is big enough to worry you, nobody has the right to dismiss it, please understand that I understand, and through this story we have each other._

 _So please,_

 _Be safe._

* * *

 _M_


	2. Chapter 1

It's a rather odd concept to consider how people are, to consider this is how they think and believe, it must be odd to be like them.

It must be rather odd indeed, Sherlock considered to himself as he stared out of the window of Baker Street, rather a steel like expression set on his face with impressive vigour. He focused on his breath fogging on the window in front of him, the vapour of such the first thing to highlight t him that perhaps he should probably be feeling cold.

The seemingly distant hum drum of john's kitchen clamouring echoing in the background, he'd been talking for a while, although Sherlock had unfocussed his ears only to allow himself to hear the distant whisper or the sound. It was oddly comforting. He'd missed this, the sound of John in the kitchen.

He knew john was angry at him, although he didn't let on, he knew john would cry himself to sleep every night, and would awake screaming form the terrors of such that plagued his dreams. Sherlock knew this because he could **see, I mean really see,** he could see the tired eyes and the sad look that john gave in his direction when he though Sherlock wasn't looking. He knew the effect his return had had on John, though months ago he knew the effect was still in full swing.

Sherlock felt like he could no longer be seen by john, all he needed was to truly be seen.

It was almost like if John was to truly look at him for one moment then surely he would see the fragments Sherlock was in, then he could make it all stop hurting so badly, but if this was to happen Sherlock thought he would break, and he didn't know if he could pick himself up again.

The fragments, his fragments were far too small.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

Sherlock gazed out of the window, he didn't know for how long or whether he had even, in fact breathed since his last moment of surfacing.

The only thing he knew was that a significant amount of time had passed before he became aware of the steady drone of the television of which john had just turned on, he zoned slightly in to the sound of the television, National Geographic, excellent, at least this was not one of the usually programmes john would waste his time listening to.

John had carefully chosen this channel, he knew it would spark Sherlock's interest, as little as Sherlock would actually care to admit it. The truth was that, john was very worried about Sherlock, he spent even more of his time alone now days, and he spoke only to correct the radio or perhaps Mrs Hudson every now and then. He never ate, and as far as john was aware he didn't sleep, for john regularly came down in the morning to see Sherlock in the same window seat he had been in the night before, perched on the ends of his toes just staring at the miserable street below, he never went out and he never took up any cases. This was perhaps the most worrying thing of all. What a world he must live in, inside that funny little mind of his john frequently thought, although such a hope of ever entering this world for even such a moment was an infinite impossibility.

Sherlock got himself out of the window seat and walked into the kitchen, John followed, thinking of attempting to engage with the detective.

John tried to catch Sherlock's eye, as the low and steady voice of David Attenborough continued in the background.

'Sherlock will you look at me please', John had said sternly, the half-heartedness of Sherlock's attitude to any attempt of conversation, though not particularly enthralling, was begging in to bug him.

Sherlock grunted, still not looking up.

John spoke again, more irritated this time. 'I said, will you look at me when I'm talking to you! Jesus Christ Sherlock after everything you have put me through, have a bit of respect won't you, at the very least!'.

This was when something much unexpected happened.

Sherlock looked up, directly at john, for perhaps the first time since his return, he looked him straight in his face. John stared back expecting a look of anguish and fury in Sherlock's eyes, but what he saw back was, was shocking to say the least.

The look of utter loss in Sherlock's eyes gripped john like an iron hook, he looked away almost instantly, and Sherlock shrugged, breaking free of his trance in complete silence and turned his back to john. Trying his best to appear busy with the kettle. John looked down and pretended to check his phone, this moment that had just occured chugging away in his mind.

John didn't know how long they kept this deathly silence, but suddenly john became aware of the fact Sherlock was trembling, john looked at Sherlock's back, while Sherlock continued to fill pointless mugs with tea bags.

'Sherlock?' John spoke quietly, not sure what to expect next.

There was no reply.

Sherlock rounded the kitchen counter to have a better look at the man of whom stood silently trembling in front of him.

John looked at Sherlock and became suddenly aware of the tears that were pouring down Sherlock's face, rivers of tears ran down his cheeks and his nose, his eyes screwed up, clearly making great effort to be silent.

John stared in complete stunned silence, this emotionless rock of a human was crying, like a child that thought there was no hope left in the world.

John reached out to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, supposing a sign on comfort.

Sherlock wielded round instantly at the moment of contact, torn Johns arm from his shoulder and sprinted out of the kitchen, without a word, and down the hall, he slammed into the bathroom and John heard the bolt being rammed into the join.

'What the hell what that',

John thought as he dashed down the hall towards the now bolted bathroom door.


	4. Chapter 3

John raced down the hall, with such a mass of momentum he nearly sailed right into the locked door.

Heart drumming in his body, he crouched next to the door and pressed his ear to it, taking every care to remain quiet as so not startle Sherlock.

*on the other side of the door*

Sherlock crouched on the balls of his feet, wedged between the bath and the shower at the far end of the bathroom, as far as humanly possible from the door, his eyes were glued to the handle of the latch, expecting it to burst open at any moment, he could sense John's presence on the other side of the door.

Sobs wracked his whole slim frame, he was sure his chest would explode at any moment, tears came so thick and fast he felt blind. His hyperventilated breathing the only thing he could hear, his brain was full of a terrifying black fog. Consuming him and everything he knew, removing his anchors from reality.

Sherlock slipped further and further into his panic, slowly losing grip on his surroundings.

Suddenly he felt a hitch in his chest, his brain burnt like fire from the lack of oxygen, the fog becoming denser and denser. Black spots forming at every angle of his vision.

He lost all sense of everything and plummeted from his crouched position, face first, onto the hard tiled floor, the loud thwack echoing around the room. Stone cold.

*back to john*

Upon the moment of Sherlock's impact with the cold stone tiles John banged and kicked at the door with all his might, 'Sherlock! let me in! Right this instant'.

No reply followed.

John pressed his ear to the door suddenly aware he could no longer hear Sherlock's heart wrenching sobs.

He shed his blazer almost immediately and walked back down the hall, upon reaching the end he turned on the spot and ran with all his weight behind him into the bathroom door. Ripping it from the hinges with the most horrifying of noises, landing in a pile of timbre rubble and sawdust half a meter from the unconscious Sherlock.

He wasn't breathing.


	5. Chapter 4

_Hello thier dear friend,_

 _i do so hope that you are well, and if you are not then i hope you soon will be, and if you do not think that is truly descriptive of your situation either know that with every fibre of my being i do so hope you will be one day, please hang in there. I SEE YOU ._

 _THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR ALL THE VIEWS, IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME._

 _PLEASE REVIEW AND SHARE. CONSTRUCTIVE CRITISISM SO WELCOMED._

 _M_

John grappled with the urge to scream, cry and throw up all at the same time, the adrenaline coursing like an F1 car through his bloodstream fuelling his every move. He crawled to Sherlock and grabbed the man by the collar and lifted him towards him. He felt a small breath of air tingle the hairs of the back of his hand.

Doctor mode enabled, he started checking the man's vitals, as he had a thousand times on thousands before…. Danger…airways…..breathing…..circulation. He whipped his phone out of his pocket and fumbled for the L key, when after what felt like eternity he saw 'Lestrade'. He stabbed the green button and pressed the phone to his ear, as if the force would perhaps make him answer faster.

'John?' a gruff force answered on the end of the phone, clearly unaware of the scene unfolding at Baker Street.

'Sherlock, unconscious…. Must send … HELP!' John panted into the phone eager to get his point across as fast as possible.

'ON MY WAY, hang in there john,'' Lestrade slammed the phone down.

John slide the phone across the floor away from him, and after checking Sherlock's pulse one more time, he pulled the man's head into his lap, glad for the sound of his breathing, as laboured as it was, he stroked Sherlock's forehead, which was clammy and cold and made a collective prayer to every entity he could think of.

Time dragged on.


	6. Chapter 5

Lestrade slammed through the door to 221b, dashing through the living room, the path he trod so many times before. He raced to the bathroom and dived over the saw dust and rubble to land at the feet of john, still cradling Sherlock.

Sherlock's breathing though haggard and very clearly difficult was echoing off the bathroom walls, a small trickle of blood running from his nose and crossing his lips, probably a result from the force of his impact with the fall.

Suddenly Sherlock vaulted upwards from the floor, a moan of terror exiting his lips, the sound tore through john, it was the kind of strangled cry that should not come from a person.

The detective began to flail his limbs in all directions clearly in great discomfort. He open and closed his hands like a desperate child trying so desperately to cling to the world of little comfort.

'Sherlock!?, can you hear me?!' john cried desperately shaking the detective by his shoulders. The detectives eyes shot open and locked upon Johns on the instant of john's contact with his shoulders, a strangled grasp left his lips.

He locked eyes with john and burst into hysterical sobs with tears cascading in a waterfall down his cheeks, the sobs so violent they caused a whole new level of tremoring to break out across his body causing him to bang against the floor with such a vigour it was surely very painful.

Then the idea grasped john, Sherlock was having such a severe anxiety attack he wasn't getting enough oxygen to his brain, this is why he was veering in and out of consciousness. He had experienced similar after he had returned from Iraq. He had to calm the detective down quickly before Sherlock put himself in hospital, something of which would perhaps be the worst idea for him at this time.

John seized either side of Sherlock's face and held his head so that his face was an inch from Sherlock's, 'You need to breathe Sherlock, you need to be calm and look at me, you're having a panic attack, that fog you can see is because of the oxygen deprivation to your brain, you have to stop.''

Sherlock momentarily stilled, his breathe and sobs still wracking his body violently before his eyes rolled back into his head and he stilled once more.

John, now aware of what was happening, held his hand to feel the breath under his chin and upon feeling the hairs on his hand tingled stroked the top of Sherlock's head.

'It's going to be ok', John said with absolute assurance in his voice.

Lestrade just crouched there completely shocked. He had no words.


	7. Chapter 6

Sherlock was soaking wet from the sweat, a direct result of his ordeal, his clothes were plastered to his skin and his hair was yet curling more from the moisture.

John held Sherlock until the trembling has slowed and his breathing because slightly slower, Sherlock's eyes were shut and appeared to be asleep, the exhaustion now evidently taking its toll.

After such a long period of silence john turned to the now crossed legged Lestrade who was be seated on the floor about 4 feet away taking care to give the two men space, and addressed him in no more than a whisper.

''Thank you such much Greg, I was so afraid I had no idea what was going on, thanks for getting hear so fast, but I think it might be best if you go now, as he's most likely to be extremely uncomfortable about witnesses to the situation later,''.

''It's absolutely no problem mate, are you sure? You don't need my help or anything? I hate the thought of leaving you? Why don't I help you get him to his room and then while you deal with him, ill clean this up,'' said Greg gesturing the saw dust and splintered timbre door that covered the tiled floor.

''Would you?'' john asked, 'that would be absolutely marvelous''.

''Of course''.

John raised Sherlock's arm and put it over his shoulder, Lestrade doing the same, they hoisted the completely limp detective upwards and carried him down the hall to his room and laid him on his bed.

Lestrade upon looking at john to check nothing else was required of him, grabbed the broom in the kitchen and headed to the bathroom, leaving John to deal Sherlock.

John looked at Sherlock, of whom now lay motionless on his bed and realized he needed to snap into action before the detective awoke.

Without much thought to what he was doing, so as to avoid embarrassment he stripped Sherlock out of his sodden clothes, with the knowledge that this was defiantly more than sweat, oh Sherlock he thought, he was defiantly unwell.

He dressed Sherlock in some new pyjama bottoms, leaving his top half bare and laid him under the covers of his bedding, taking note of to what extreme Sherlock's ribs protruded through his skin, making a mental note to tackle the problem with Sherlock when he awoke.

John laid the detective onto his pillow tucked him in and pulled his arm chair to the side of the bed, and settled himself to a night of waiting and make the resolve to sit with the detective till he awoke again.

Never a peaceful moment he thought to himself with a painful smile.

PLEASE REVIEW AND FOLLOW IT WOULD MEAN THE WORLD TO ME, ID LOVE TO HEAR ANYTHING YOU HAVE OT SAY, FEEL FREE TO MESSAGE ME.

M


	8. Chapter 7

Hours and hours went by, John sat with a fixed gaze upon the sleeping detective, terrified that if he looked away for just a second, or even blink that he would miss something.

John got up silently from the arm chair and picked up Sherlock's iPhone, of which was resting on the nightstand, John had removed it from Sherlock's trouser pocket earlier when he had helped the detective out of the sodden trousers and had placed it there. He swiped across the screen and unlocked it and began scrolling through the admittedly limited contact list, when he found what he was looking for he selected the number and pressed dial, holding the phone to his ear as he swept quietly out of the room.

The phone picked up shortly hafter the second ring.

''Yes'' the cutting tone of Mycroft Holmes rang out of the phone.

''It's John,'' John spoke, all hope of formalities begin discarded, unimportant, ''Its Sherlock, there is something very wrong…''

To Mycroft nothing else needed to be said.

''I'm one my way leave the door unlocked'' he finished and the phone hung up.

John prayed he had made the right decision although his whole body relaxed significantly with relief, Mycroft would know what to do. All was going to be well.


	9. Chapter 8

_Well what a Christmas, it defiantly was an experience i shall remember, i hope you are well and i hope you are safe._

 _PLEASE KEEP THE REVIEWS COMING I NEARLY CRIED AT THE LAST ONES THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH FOR TAKING THE TIME TO REPLY._

 ** _M_**

John shoved his mobile back in his pocket and returned to the seat beside the sleeping crumpling form of Sherlock's body.

He waited, listening to the slow drone of the traffic from the detective's window, the glow of the orange street lamps the only light in the room. John eventually heard the soft click of the lock of the front door, he got out of his seat and walked down the hall where he met Mycroft who stood in the door way in front of him.

He was much paler, older almost, he looked worn particularly around the eyes, his eyes dark and a slight tremor shaking his frame, he stared at john with a look of nothing other than immense worry plastering his face and whispered ''is he sleeping?''.

John nodded and gestured to Sherlock's room, where the door lay slightly ajar. Mycroft smiled a meek and old smile and stepped down the hall and past John, into the room. He moved swiftly yet silently over to the bed and crouched beside it, He reached out a long thin hand to Sherlock's face and placed his hand upon it, gently brushing the sodden hair from the detectives face. John did not know what was more alarming, the fact that he had just witnessed such an act of brotherly compassion from the elder Holmes, or the awful fact that this looked like a practised movement on behalf of Mycroft. How many times had the elder Holmes had to do this before?


	10. Chapter 9

_Sorry for the short upload, more on its way i swear._

 _PLEASE SHARE AND REVIEW IT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME_

 _THANK YOU SO MUCH._

 ** _M._**

When Mycroft had finished taking care of Sherlock, which entailed tucking him in like a small child, and to John surprise Mycroft bent down and whispered something unintelligible in the detectives ear, before giving a sad little smile and leaving the room, ushering John silently with his long hands to the sitting room.

John sat down in his regular arm chair and Mycroft sat in his brothers, John produced a decanter of whisky from the table next to him and gestured a glass to Mycroft who took it gladly. For a few minutes they sipped in silence, the liquid burning their throats, it felt like the only heat soured in the room, as though the terror of the night that had unfolded has sucked all of the warmth from the room.

John finally broke the silence,

'He was crying Mycroft, I mean actually crying'. He brought his hands to his face and rested his head on them in despair for a few seconds until Mycroft replied.

'John, this really is no your fault, it could not be helped.''

John stared at Mycroft incredulously, silently urging him to go on, sensing he had much more to say on the issue.

John was not disappointed as Mycroft began to weave a tale.


	11. Chapter 10

_Hey there everyone, thank you so much for the views a really appreciate it._

 _sorry for my absence, life is giving me such grief at the moment and my laptop broke._

 _PLEASE SHARE AND REVIEW,_

 _Ever yours,_

 **M.**

 **Tumblr: blog/phantastic-times-ahead**

'He always was an odd child, even from the begging'', Mycroft began.

'He just never seemed to quite fit in with everybody else, in anyway. He was assessed many time, naturally, he was different. They wished a clinical diagnosis of Aspergers upon him, though mother and father did not encourage this, it was eventually forgotten about. It was the teen years that were hardest, he didn't eat, or sleep for weeks at a time, mother was constantly called into school to pry him from the anxiety attacks, and the feeling of terror crippled him. It was a rather difficult thing to witness, he would ball himself up and repeatedly bang his head or scratch the back of his neck till he bled, it really was awful''.

At this point to john's utter shock, single tears began cascading down Mycroft's face, though no break occurred in his voice, he continued with his tale. 'I always wished he'd get better as he aged, but he evidently hasn't. Though I will tell you this Dr Watson, he has improved an incomprehensible amount since you began your acquaintance with him you, I dare say, have a calming effect on my brother,

John stared at the older Holmes, and suddenly it all clicked, Sherlock may have battled with the world, but Mycroft has battled for him, always and his love for Sherlock was so strong.

'I used to sit,' Mycroft continued, 'By his bed every single night before you came here, every night he would scream and panic and thrash out, he was constantly hurting himself, the stimulation of it making him at least feel something.

John stared into the fire, 'Well', he said, 'Now well sit there, beside him together.''

Mycroft gave a slight smile and sipped his drink, john did the same, the alcohol burning the back of his throat, and although he couldn't be sure the burning wasn't a result of the tears now rolling down his face. The two sat in silence surrounded by their sadness.

A blood curdling scream came from Sherlock's room.

'On we go', Mycroft whispered raising himself from his chair with such speed, 'and so it begins Dr Watson'.


	12. Chapter 11

_Hello there everyone,_

 _Sorry for the lack of posting at the moment, life is rather complex right now, though entertaining to write sometimes it is just too much . I hope you are all well, and if you are not, i hope you will be soon._

 _PLEASE SHARE AND FOLLOW, MOST IMPORTANTLY_ _ **REVIEW**_ _, CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM WELCOMED._

 ** _M._**

John was out of his seat faster than he had even believed possible, it was almost like his bones were suddenly powered with pure flames, and he flew across the room with lightning speed, just behind the elder Holmes. Of whom had clearly inherited his brother's lanky legs, his stride ratio was almost triples johns quite easily. Mycroft was down the hall and through Sherlock's bedroom door with immense grace, when john rounded the corner Mycroft was crouched on the bed, over Sherlock, each of his slender hands either side of his brother's face. Sherlock was now sat, bolt upright, sweating profusely, and screaming with his whole lung capacity, it rattled the window panes. Sherlock, a man of such wit and calmness now wracked by sobs, hysterical tears running down his face, he clearly could see things the others could not. His hands clenched over Mycroft's, if this pained the elder Holmes he gave absolutely no sign, he just constantly whispered to him, 'sssssh Sherlock, sshhhh it's going to stop soon, its nearly over, heyyy now don't worry its ok,''. Sherlock's hyperventilation eventually slowed to form a slightly erratic pattern. Seemingly exhausted, his grip of Mycroft slacked and he fell into a deep sleep. Mycroft detangled himself, and wedged himself between Sherlock and the bedside wall, still on the bed. Not moving. This was clear. John true to his oath took up the arm chair beside the bed and in silence they watched the young man sleep. Unsure how long this tranquility may last.

Eventually when the sun began to stream through the curtains, John awoke, sorry to realize he had dropped off. He looked over and saw Mycroft, still completely awake staring at his brother with a fixed glare. 'I left you sleep', he said, 'He hasn't moved'. He spoke answering john's thoughts without a need for his utterance. John nodded, he glanced at the bedside clock. 5:30 am, Sherlock will wake soon he thought, and the man had already begun to stir. Making himself excused he left the room silently and went to the kitchen. He began to prepare the tea, in mugs and boiled the kettle.

He heard raised voices from the room next door and dashed in, abandoning the drinks, expecting the worst. Mycroft was holding his bleeding nose, Sherlock, back in his usual state had hit him upon waking up next to another figure, utterly disoriented. Under any other conditions this would have been rather entertaining, but right now, when Sherlock stormed past john into the kitchen. John could only think how much fun this would be, how to deal with a temperamental Sherlock…. How does one even begin?


End file.
